


Gossamer

by ImagineTheDragon



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: F/F, No Lesbians Die, Slavery, Violence, but i got a lil bit more gorey, i tried to keep it to canon-level violence, my b, no beta we die like cluny the scourge, so there's that, sometimes you hear a really good mining song and you have to write a fic, there's gays in this though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineTheDragon/pseuds/ImagineTheDragon
Summary: Fernglen holt in the Southsward was a place for woodlanders to go when they needed food, shelter, or even just a good time. That changed when Datura the Wicked attacked. Briarpaw and Lilypetal are two of the only survivors. This is the day things started changing, and the idea of hope stopped seeming so foolish
Relationships: Original Character/Original Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Gossamer

**Author's Note:**

> vermin names are wild and i don't like them. woodlanders names are wild but they're more fun. brian i have a bone to pick with your naming conventions

I wrote this because I lack the skill to animate an AMV to the cover of [We All Lift Together by Freya Catherine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1MwAvuiyVA)

~~~

The Fernglen otter holt was the closest thing to a castle left in the Southsward, Floret long disintegrated to ancient and crumbling foundations. It was built into the cliffs flanking an impressive waterfall, windows carved into the stone and open to the spray, it was a majestic display of the hard work and dedication of the Fernglen otters. The holt stood as a monument to peace and help for all the woodlanders in the area, a beacon of welcome and healing for any who needed shelter or rest. The otters would take in any who agreed to live peaceably, but they had a large standing army, willing to defend their own ferociously. Many thought Fernglen holt would stand ‘til the end of time, a bastion of safety for all those too weak to defend themselves.

Smoke poured from the windows, blood and screams oozing down the cliff face as the hordes of the silver vixen Datura the Wicked picked off the last of the holt’s defenders. 

An otter pup, older than the holt’s other young ones by a season or two, stood in front of the babes, snarling fiercely as she tried to protect them. 

The rats and weasels of Datura’s horde jeered at her, laughingly poking her with spears and sword tips. And still the pup snapped her tiny needle white teeth at them, as fearsome as one her age could be. 

“What’s the hold up?” Datura snarled, striding into the room, keen green eyes taking in the scene before her. 

“Go’ a tough one here, marm,” laughed a stoat, his cackling voice making the pup’s fur stand further on end as she snarled at the vixen. 

“Leave us ‘lone!” she demanded. A smaller ottermaid tentatively stepped beside her, trying to join her in her defiance, reaching to take her paw. Her once neat dress was ragged about the hem, blood soaked a quarter way up her skirts from the puddles that gathered nearly everywhere across the once clean floors of the holt. 

A growl from a nearby rat sent the more timid babe cowering behind her braver friend. The tough pup lunged at the rat, digging her teeth into his leg and holding on like a vicious limpet.

The fox laughed cruelly as the rat hopped about, shrieking and striking at the otter with the butt of his spear. “Trouble, Wrathtail?” 

As the squealing rat hopped by, she grabbed the pup by her scruff, pushing the claws of her free paw into the soft area behind her jaw, forcing the young one to release the unfortunate rat’s ankle. She immediately turned her snapping jaws on the vixen, who just chuckled at her attempts. “Oh I like this one, Redeye! She’s got spirit!” The weasel captain she spoke to grinned in reflexive agreement, a bit in awe of the otter babe’s belligerence. “What’s your name, toothy one?” Datura asked the otter.

She didn’t stop struggling, glaring at the vixen with fierce blue eyes. “Non’ya bus’ness foxface,” she snarled, chest heaving with angry pants. 

The vixen narrowed her eyes, laughter still sparkling in their depths. “Is that so? Well I suppose we better roast you in one of our cooking pots, otter soup is quite delicious, isn’t that right lads?”

The surrounding vermin nodded in agreement, licking their gruesome chops meaningfully. 

“Stop it!” the smaller ottermaid called, trembling in terror where she stood with the other babes. “‘Er names is Briarpaw!”

“Stow it Lilypedal!” Briarpaw said, still struggling in the vixen’s claws. As soon as she realized she’d said the other otter’s name aloud, she clapped a paw to her muzzle in horror. 

Datura the Wicked crouched in front of Lilypetal, still holding the struggling otter by the scruff. “Now here’s a smart one, Briarpaw. You’d do well to follow her example. Though I suspect that would make things much more boring, wouldn’t it?”

Briarpaw renewed her struggling. “Leave ‘er ‘lone! Leave Lilypedal ‘lone!”

The vixen just laughed once more. “Redeye!” The weasel captain snapped to attention. “Take this one on a tour of her home. Perhaps seeing what remains of her elders will temper her spirit.” 

All fight left the otter pup in a rush as she was deposited in Redeye’s claws. Looking down at the feisty pup, the weasel felt a twinge of pity stir in his chest. Still, he nodded obediently to his mistress and took her from the room. Briarpaw watched over his shoulder, keeping her eyes on Lilypetal and the six other pups as long as she could, trying to ignore the lifeless otters whose blood soaked into the stone floor.

Eight pups, that was all that remained of Fernglen holt.

~~~

The summer sun beat mercilessly down on the quarry, the exposed skin on the scarred backs of the slaves toiling there reddening and peeling beneath its onslaught. The grey stone absorbed the heat, reflecting it back and making the earthen pit all but sizzle like a hot cauldron.

Briarpaw looked around the quarry, her emaciated fellows swinging pickaxes and hauling giant chunks of stone on log rollers, all the while hobbled by lengths of chain cuffed to each footpaw. The familiar heat of rage burned hot in her chest as she swung violently at the wall in front of her, imagining her pickaxe was splitting the skull of Datura as it cracked into the granite.    
The hedgehog working next to her, Terrance Bluespine, glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“One o’ those days, eh Briarpaw?”

She grit her teeth, waiting for the ferret supervising them to move past before responding, “When  _ isn’t  _ it one of those days, friend?” 

He chuckled darkly. “Ain’t that the truth.” He was too skinny, muscles wasted from lack of food and overwork. He leaned on his pickaxe for a moment, trying to catch his breath. 

The ferret rounded on him. 

He was new to Datura’s horde, bright-eyed and young and eager to distinguish himself to the cruel vixen. 

“No restin’ you lazy maggot!” he roared in a bass voice, arm cocking back, ready to bring his whip cracking down on the hedgehog’s already chipped and broken spines. 

Briarpaw calmly straightened, taking the two steps needed to get between the vermin and his intended victim. She was big for a female otter, staring the ferret down, broad shoulders blocking Terrance completely from his view. 

He quailed beneath the otter’s implacable stare for a moment before he seemed to remember he was the slaver and she the slave. 

“Back to work you lugs!” He brought the plaited leather whip down on Briarpaw’s shoulder.

She didn’t flinch, simply continued staring at the ferret, her blue eyes shining with defiance as he tried to make her bend to his whim. He was far from the strongest slave driver whose lash she’d toiled under, but the whip still stung through the rough sacking that passed for clothing among the slaves as it bit into her shoulders, whipping around her back and across her neck. 

The ferret was panting with effort when Redeye sauntered up, looking unconcerned. 

“Y’must be new,” the weasel scoffed. “Yore wasting yore time with that one. Yore more like to break that whip than make a dent in ‘er. Leave ‘er an’ ‘er fellows alone an’ she’ll do ‘er job.”

The out of breath ferret turned to snap at the weasel, but froze when he recognized who he was speaking to. 

“Captain Redeye, sir!” The ferret snapped to attention before shooting a glance at Briarpaw, who was still glaring fiercely at him. He quickly returned his attention to the weasel captain. “This slave-”

“Yeah, I’m shore she did, thick ‘ead. Jus’ get back to work,” the weasel ordered, pointing to a different group of slaves further into the quarry. “She’s the mistress's fa’rite, you wanna be the one to tell ‘er you offed ‘er?”

Briarpaw frowned at Redeye as the ferret scampered off, but she didn’t dare say anything when they could be overheard by other members of the horde. 

“Wha’chu lookin’ at,” Redeye snapped at her, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement. 

Briarpaw just shook her head and grabbed her pickaxe from where she’d dropped it, turning back to the rock she and Terrance were carving out of the quarry wall.

“Thank you,” the hedgehog murmured from the corner of his mouth as Redeye padded away. “If you hadn’t stepped in I’d-”

“Stow it,” Briarpaw cut him off, watching the ferret from the corner of her eye as he cracked his whip in the general direction of the other group of slaves. Lilypetal was among their number. If he laid even one lash across her back, it would be the last day he drew breath. 

The bully seemed content with how the more timid slaves cowed before him though, his chest puffing importantly. 

Grinding her teeth in frustration, Briarpaw paused the ceaseless swinging of her pickaxe, looking around the quarry. Everywhere she looked, she saw the same thing. Emaciated woodlanders, paws calloused from long hours spent swinging their pickaxes, ankles chaffed and bleeding from the chain hobbles that kept them shuffling in undignified steps. 

No amount of her own protection would keep them safe. No amount of food or medicine that Redeye smuggled to them beneath Datura’s nose would keep them alive. 

They needed to take their own fate in their paws.

They needed to fight back.

Seasons of enslavement wore on them all, she knew. Even the newer arrivals. Datura the Wicked was good at gaining compliance from those who provided the labour she needed to rebuild her castle on Floret’s foundations.

The otter’s paws were shaking with anger when a rat on the level above caught sight of her. He growled, raising his whip as if to crack it in her direction. She bared her teeth at him, and the whip fell from his nerveless paw, his leg, scarred from where she’d bit it as a pup, reflexively pulling back. 

Cowards, all of them.

She returned her attention to the stone, giving Wrathtail one last snort of derision. 

The slaves, their problem was lack of unity. Datura excelled at pitting them against one another. Slaves who behaved well or informed on their fellows got special treatment, better food, more comfortable sleeping quarters, cushier jobs, that sort of thing. When the vixen was feeling especially malicious, she’d select a random slave for this treatment, ensuring they were ostracized since no one knew whether or not they could be trusted. 

Almost absently, Briarpaw started humming. It was an old tune, one her mother, the captain of the guard at Fernglen holt, had sung her to sleep with as a pup. It had been many a season since the holt had burned, but the tune was still ingrained in her memory, as instinctive and automatic as swinging a pickaxe had become. 

“That’s luverly,” Terrance panted in the midsummer heat. “It got any words?”

Briarpaw inclined her head in a slight nod. “None that would be right in a place like this.”

“Shame. I do love to sing.”

Briarpaw fell silent, considering as the rhythmic thunk of the pickaxe hitting stone rattled her scarred paws. 

“Y’know, I think I can come up with something.”

She took a few minutes, humming the tune to herself as she pushed aside the ghostly memory of her mother’s singing voice, spinning new lyrics to the melody until she was happy with them. 

Terrance picked up the tune, humming alongside her as the swings of their pickaxes naturally synced up to the rhythm.

Briarpaw hadn’t used her singing voice in many seasons. She had been young and pitchy on the few occasions she’d sung along with the celebratory shanties at feast days in Fernglen holt, and since then…

Since then she hadn’t had much reason to sing.

Now, her voice rang out strong and clear above the grunts and cries of slaves and the crack of switches and whips. The natural acoustics of the quarry magnified her voice until it filled the pit.

_ Cold, the air and water flowing _ _  
_ _ Hard, the land we call our home _ _  
_ _ Push to keep the dark from coming _ _  
_ _ Feel the weight of what they owe _

Slaves on all levels of the quarry paused their work, turning towards the unfamiliar sound. The slave drivers seemed at a loss, looking at one another in confusion. Redeye arched his brows at Briarpaw, leaning a shoulder on the wall of the quarry and crossing his arms, watching her and waiting to see what would happen. 

Briarpaw kept her eyes forward, both her and Terrance working to the rhythm of the song, acting as though nothing was amiss. She took advantage of the vermins’ bewilderment and pressed on with her song. 

_ This, the song of sons and daughters _ _  
_ _ Hide the heart of who we are _ _  
_ _ Fight for peace to build our future _ _  
_ _ Strong, united, working 'till we fall _

Lilypetal had a paw pressed to her muzzle, happy tears damping the fur of her cheeks. She hadn’t heard Briarpaw sing in so long, since they were pups. Her voice was beautiful, clear and smooth as a brook on a summer’s day. Others would say it was surprising, hearing a voice like that coming from the large, brutal looking otter. Lilypetal thought it suited her perfectly. 

While the words were completely altered, the tune was unmistakable, bringing to mind nights when she would have nightmares and end up in the Streambattle residence. Briarpaw’s mother would sing her to sleep while curled up in Briarpaw’s bed, taking comfort in her friend’s closeness. 

Lilypetal was brought out of her memories as Briarpaw’s voice suddenly cut off, a weasel cracking a cane across her back. 

The smaller otter took a step towards her mate with a whimper, paw raised. She froze as the ferret who’d been harassing her work crew turned his cruel eyes on her. Not for the first time she wished she was brave like Briarpaw. 

She stepped back as Redeye intervened. Lilypetal didn’t hear everything he said to the other weasel, just bits and pieces. 

“Who gives a… let ‘er sing... put some life in these skinbags.” 

The weasel said something back, clearly arguing with Redeye. The bigger weasel sighed and hung his head for a moment, then struck out with lightning fast reflexes. Lilypetal didn’t see what he did, but the one who struck Briarpaw was on the ground, choking on his own blood. 

It seemed to take forever, but it couldn’t have been that long until the weasel’s body stilled. 

“Anyone else gor any bright ideas ‘bout how I run this ‘ere quarry?!” Redeye roared. The vermin scattered through the pit moved from paw to paw awkwardly, claws shifting on their whips, switches, and canes. “Tha’s what I thought.” Redeye struck out at Briarpaw, a warning cuff that left claw marks on her cheek. 

Lilypetal knew he only did it to save face in front of the other horde members, but she still felt anger spike through her at the sight. 

“Ge’ back to work you layabouts!” Redeye roared. “Someone ge’ this outta my sight.” He kicked the weasel’s corpse before striding off, the whip he normally kept curled on his belt cracking through the air warningly. 

A squirrel and a vole quickly removed the dead weasel, putting his body on their cart with the rough chunk of stone they were hauling to the top of the quarry.

Briarpaw and Terrance took up their humming again, and this time when the big otter started singing again, Lilypetal joined in, her sweet voice harmonizing well with Briarpaw’s. 

_ Cold, the air and water flowing _ _  
_ _ Hard, the land we call our home _ _  
_ _ Push to keep the dark from coming _ _  
_ _ Feel the weight of what they owe _

More and more slaves joined in as they picked up the tune. Hedgehogs and mice and moles and squirrels and otters all filling the echoing pit with Briarpaw’s song. The strident impacts of their pickaxes on stone were a harsh, rhythmic counterpoint as they worked, all falling in sync with the beat.

_ This, the song of sons and daughters _ _  
_ _ Hide the heart of who we are _ _  
_ _ Fight for peace to build our future _ _  
_ _ Strong, united, working 'till we fall _

For the first time in a long while, hope beat in Briarpaw’s chest. A sense of unity filled the quarry for the first time she could remember. Maybe they had a chance. Maybe, the plan that had been percolating in the back of her mind could come together and they could rid Southsward of Datura’s evil.

_ And we all lift, and we're all adrift together, together _ _  
_ _ Through the cold mist, 'till we're lifeless together, together _

It was far from a happy song, but all the slaves felt the lyrics in their bones and a sense of comradery they’d been missing filled them from their footpaws to their ears. The vermin didn’t seem to know what to do. There were a handful of desultory whip-cracks, but none of them were putting their backs into it. 

_ Cold, the air and water flowing _ _  
_ _ Hard, the land we call our home _ _  
_ _ Push to keep the dark from coming _ _  
_ _ Feel the weight of what they owe _

The sun was still beating down on their sore and exhausted backs, but the slaves of Datura the Wicked felt more alive than they had since they had been captured. Some of them were clearly singers by trade, skillfully harmonizing and weaving their voices in and out of the song, layering the lyrics until it was a glorious jumble of words. 

_ This, the song of sons and daughters _ _  
_ _ Hide the heart of who we are _ _  
_ _ Fight for peace to build our future _ _  
_ _ Strong, united, working 'till we fall _

A crow who’d come down from the nearby woods to pick at the corpse of the weasel Redeye had killed, abandoned at the top of the quarry, paused and tilted her head, listening to the voices coming from the normally oppressively quiet pit. Interesting. Cypress Hammerpaw would want to hear about this. 

In a flurry of feathers, the crow launched herself into the air, making her way East and further into the forest.

_ And we all lift  _ _  
_ _ And we're all adrift together, together _ __  
_ Through the cold mist _ _  
_ __ 'Till we're lifeless together, together

As they started the song over again, there was a crunch as Lilypetal’s pickaxe slipped from her paws and hit the gravel-coated ground. She had gotten so caught up in the song that she wasn’t paying as much attention as she should have to the rock, and it had briefly lodged awkwardly in the stone and fallen from her paws.

The ferret turned on her, his eyes lighting up with excitement. He clearly hadn’t been happy with Redeye’s decision to let the slaves sing, and had been waiting for an opportunity to exercise his power over them again. 

His whip came down on her back, and she wasn’t able to stifle a yelp of pain. 

Faster than the chain hobbles around her ankles should have allowed her to move, Briarpaw leapt across the quarry and was on the ferret. 

The second lash that he had been bringing down on Lilypetal’s back wrapped instead around Briarpaw’s arm as the big otter launched herself at the vermin. Her paws, strong and sinewy from seasons of forced labour, squeezed around his throat as she knocked him to the ground with a loud crack. 

The ferret scrabbled and scratched for his life, claws leaving bloody tracks in Briarpaw’s hide as he struggled. The otter didn’t flinch, rage in her eyes as she grimly held on.

“Briar, I’m alright!” Lilypetal tried to intervene. “If you kill him you’ll be punished! Briar please!” Briarpaw showed no sign that she had heard her mate, sharp teeth bared in a noiseless snarl.

She would have kept going until the light faded from the ferret’s bulging eyes, but Redeye was among them like a shot, yanking the otter bodily from the slave driver.

The ferret was unconscious but still breathing, lying on the ground with his leg at an odd angle. Briarpaw snapped her teeth at Redeye, who returned the snarl, claws digging into her chest as he held her back. 

“Back in line,” he growled fiercely. “You gone and done it now, ot’er.” There was real anger in his eyes as he glared at Briarpaw. 

Chest heaving with rage, she didn’t back down, returning the glare. Lilypetal stepped forward, putting her paw in her mate’s. Briarpaw started, surprised by the touch. Coming back to her senses, she turned her gaze away from Redeye, hunching her shoulders and making herself smaller in what passed for her as supplication, giving Lilypetal’s paw a squeeze. 

Redeye shook his head and cracked his whip. “Back to work!” he bellowed at the rest of the slaves. “You two wi’ me. Patchleg, keep ‘em in line ‘til I ge’ back. You, squirrel, and you, ‘edgepig, put Flybite on your cart an’ follow be’ind.”

The two otters wordlessly followed Redeye up and out of the quarry, making their way towards the new construction being raised on Castle Floret’s bones. 

Lilypetal’s paw trembled in Briarpaw’s, and the bigger otter gave it another squeeze, shooting her a comforting smile. 

“Can’t cover this one for you, moron,” Redeye muttered out of the corner of his mouth when they were out of earshot of the horde beasts. 

“I’ll bear the consequences of my own actions, weasel,” Briarpaw muttered back.

“The vixen li’es you, Briarpa’. Tha’ll only get you so far.”

“Oh, Briarpaw, he’s right. You need to be more careful! I can take more than you give me credit for!”

Briarpaw glanced at Lilypetal, smiling rakishly at her. The claw marks left on her face and chest gave her a roguish look. “It’s not about what you  _ can _ take Lily. It’s about what I’m willing to  _ let _ you take. You’re too pretty to be as scarred as I am.”

~~~

Datura smirked as Briarpaw was locked in the stockade outside of her half-built castle. Flybite was lying on a cot on one side of the vixen’s throne, both brought out specially for this occasion. On her other side, the big otter’s mate stood shaking like a leaf, flanked by Redeye and a stoat, Mangetooth. A chain had been hooked to the otter’s hobbles and staked to the ground, only giving her enough slack for a half-step in any direction. 

“We can’t have slaves attacking my horde beasts, can we?” Datura asked rhetorically, clucking her tongue in disapproval. The vermin who had come to witness the punishment laughed and jeered their agreement.

Slaves had been brought to witness the results of Briarpaw’s defiance, too. Not many; those at the quarry still laboured, but those who served the vixen and her horde beasts as servants and cooks, ensuring the story would be spread before the sun set. 

Flybite’s throat was bruised to the point that he couldn’t speak, but he made an eager sound as Darkpelt, Datura’s second in command, strode up to the stockade, willow switch snapping ominously through the air next to Briarpaw’s head. 

The otter didn’t take her eyes off of her mate, trying to reassure the terrified otter. It didn’t seem to do any good. Lilypetal was making a low whimpering sound in her throat, panic-stricken of what she knew was coming. 

“Now Darkpelt, I don’t want the otter dead. But Flybite deserves some vengeance, don’t you, ferret?”

Flybite grunted in affirmation, leaning half off his cot towards the bound otter, eyes glittering in cruel anticipation. He only stopped when the splint on his broken leg cut into his thigh.

Datura chuckled. “There you have it. I’ll let you know when she’s had enough, Darkpelt.”

The stoic black rat lowered his head respectfully to the vixen before turning his attention on Briarpaw. 

The big otter set her jaw and shot Lilypetal a wink before the switch fell across her back.

Datura hadn’t expected her favourite slave to cry out at the beating. She never did, some stubborn instinct of defiance. Still, the otter couldn’t help the tears that eventually came to her eyes as Darkpelt broke his second switch across her back. Blood from her shredded back soaked the tattered remnants of her sack-clothes, dripping down her legs, pooling in the dust. 

Lilypetal took a reflexive step towards her mate, stopped by the spears of her guards blocking her path. 

“She’s had enough, mistress, please!” she called to the vixen. 

The silver fox glanced at her, her pale green eyes narrowing in displeasure at being addressed. “No, I don’t think she has.”

The slight otter returned her attention to Briarpaw, her eyes full of panic, paws wringing in front of her as she half-heartedly strained against Redeye and Mangetooth. 

Briarpaw gave her a shaky smile as Darkpelt grabbed a third switch from a nearby stoat. “Don’t worry your pretty head about me, Lil’,” the big otter managed to say before the muscles in her back flexed and curled reflexively as Darkpelt went returned to work. 

Datura didn’t take pleasure in having her slaves beaten. The time they had to spend recovering from the experience would be better served by labouring in the quarry, or working on raising what would be her magnificent fortress. But there was something to be said for keeping them in line, and her horde beasts certainly enjoyed the show. 

She wouldn’t begrudge them a little entertainment. 

Besides, Briarpaw had only become more fierce and hard to control as the seasons had passed. Datura wasn’t worried about the otter. She wasn’t. But something in the creature’s eyes everytime she looked at her… 

Briarpaw’s bright blue eyes shifted from her mate to the vixen, and for a moment, just a moment, Datura felt fear brush down her spine. 

It was a relief she wouldn’t admit to when the otter passed out, sagging against the wood of the stockade. 

**Author's Note:**

> if y'all are interested in reading more let me know. i have some vague plot points, but i'm not gonna write it if no one wants to read it


End file.
